


Ghost

by pinklilies



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Cyborgs, M/M, One Shot, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9242441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinklilies/pseuds/pinklilies
Summary: Finally decided to put this up here. I've had it over at AFF for a while but have been too lazy to put it here but here it is! Cyborgs, zombies, and assisted suicide! Oh my! Just a one-shot. Here you go!





	

Yoon Jeonghan sits in front of the man with long eyelashes. His lower lashes seem just as long as his upper. That’s the first thing Jeonghan notices, always the first thing. But then right after, he can see the dark bags under the man’s eyes. Choi Seungcheol hasn’t slept for days and Jeonghan pities him. 

“You can start now. Whenever you’re ready.” Jeonghan forces a curve to his lips and tucks a tendril of hair behind his ear.

“Hello,” Seungcheol says listlessly. His eyes are glued on the small cup sitting on the table between them, silver fingers twiddling. Jeonghan can feel a light tapping reverberating on the floor. Seungcheol’s leg shakes up and down. He’s nervous.

“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol says, running his silver hand through his hair. It zigzags back and forth over his head, his eyes squeezed shut in frustration.

“No, it’s fine,” Jeonghan says, his voice small and gentle.

“Let’s restart this,” says the man, rearranging his hair. It doesn’t look any neater. He takes in a deep breath and composes himself. He sticks a smile on his face.

 _That’s right, you’re more handsome when you smile,_ thinks Jeonghan. But it’s not a real smile. Seungcheol’s eyes remain unlit, darkened by a phantom sadness only few have ever experienced.

“Hello, my name is Choi Seungcheol. I am 29 years old and…I’m a cyborg.” He holds up both of his hands, the color of dull silver steel. Each muscle is shaped with a piece of metal. Metallic spheres for joints in his knuckles and wrists, metal plating covering the flexible wiring underneath. Both of his arms are of these unnatural material but the connection to his flesh is hidden by his white t-shirt. The only part of Seungcheol that isn’t human are his arms. But Seungcheol feels every single piece. The metal has been wired to his nervous system. He can turn the pain on and off, but it’s preferable for him to feel it even though it still sounds and feels different. The metalwork that clinks when he moves, the mechanic buzz when he bends his joints, the clanging when he bumps into a hard surface. Even after 8 years, it still takes some getting used to.

Jeonghan keeps quiet. He watches Seungcheol as he gently sets his hand down on the table to minimize the noise. His hands tap gently and for a second then Seungcheol’s eyes flicker towards Jeonghan. It’s brief. He bites his lips before looking back down at the cup. He avoids looking at his silver hands.

“My story starts 8 years ago, just like many of the other cyborgs out there. Everyone knows the basics. I was infected, then healed by an organization known as Gam-shi. Whatever limbs that had rotted off during the infection were replaced with metal,” Seungcheol didn’t showcase his hands again. Instead, he just shrugged his shoulders with pursed lips. “You think I’d be thankful that I was cured, that I have two functioning arms, but honestly, I wish I’d just been killed instead,” Seungcheol chuckles. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m here.”

There is a short pause. Seungcheol manages to keep his head up with eye contact but he always ends up looking at the cup again. Jeonghan can’t help but think how long his lashes are. 

“I’ve tried my best, my _very_ best, to deal with this. Daily cyborg meetings, therapist sessions, long retreats away from the country.” Seuncheol pauses, furrowing his brows for a moment then says, “I’ve done odd medicinal drugs. Alcohol. Uh…even weird stuff like hypnotism and those ridiculous sticker charms from fortune tellers. Nothing works. I still dream about the infection.”

Seungcheol closes his eyes for 3 long seconds. Then he opens them again, this time looking directly at the man named Yoon Jeonghan. His long hair is tied up in a ponytail, a portion of it tucked behind his ear but a few strands won’t stay there. Jeonghan leans with his elbow on the desk, fingers mushed on his chin. His eyes have been narrowed too, so he looks immensely invested in Seungcheol’s story. But Seungcheol knows his story isn’t much different than the others. He heaves a sigh, his dialect transforming from Seoul to Daegu.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan says, still leaning on his elbow. “Please continue.”

“Don’t you get tired of this? Doesn’t it get depressing for you?”

“No. You’re my first,” Jeonghan lies. 

“You never told me that,” Seungcheol says.

Jeonghan only smiles. “Please, continue.”

Back to Seoul dialect, Seungcheol says, “Could you at least respond? Or show some reaction?” He wants to add, “To be frank, it feels like you’re staring at my soul and it makes me uncomfortable.” But doesn’t. That’s like baring his soul to the stranger himself.

“Would that make you more comfortable?” says Jeonghan. He smiles. The comfort level between these two men are as far as the north is from the south. Normally, Jeonghan wouldn’t comply to requests like this. But something about Choi Seungcheol makes him reconsider. Jeonghan isn’t sure what exactly though.

Seungcheol nods. He looks like a kid for a second. A lost, fragile, scared kid.

Jeonghan stops leaning on his elbow. He sits back, folds his hands together and sets them on the table. “So, you said you still dream about the infection?”

“Nightmares,” Seungcheol says. “I wake up everyday, thinking I’m still infected. Then I remember that I’m not, but I feel like it could come back. Like the virus is just lying dormant inside of me, waiting for me to just crack.”

“I see,” Jeonghan asks. “You should mention your good memories.”

His eyes are in a daze. Seungcheol glumly replies, “There are too many bad ones.” His eyes flicker up towards Jeonghan. “My life before the infection…they’re like blurs. I don’t know if I’ve made them up or if they’re real. There isn’t anyone that can confirm my life before the infection. They’re all dead. For all I know, my brain might be made up of metal from the very beginning.”

“No, it’s not,” Jeonghan says. 

Seungcheol sneers, back to Daegu dialect again, “Did you know me back then?”

Jeonghan looks down, feeling the heat rise in his face. “I’m sorry. No, I don’t.” He composes himself and looks at Seungcheol again, taken aback by the tears brimming above those long lower lashes. Jeonghan was going to ask if Seungcheol had ever tried looking but thought it better to keep quiet.

“Oh God,” Seungcheol looks up at the white ceiling, trying to hold his tears back. 

“Take your time. We don’t have to do this.”

Seungcheol takes one long sniffle then looks back down. He’s managed to compose himself then says, “Yes, we do.”

“Oh…kay then,” Jeonghan says, more than just slightly disheartened. He hides the disappointment with a smile.

“I appreciate that strangers had faith in me,” Seungcheol continues. “They were all rooting for me to get better. But the amount of people I killed…there’s nothing I can do to cover that up. I took lives.”

“ _You_ didn’t take lives. It was the virus. You had no control.”

Seungcheol glares at Jeonghan. He leans in towards the man with long hair, his voice nearly a whisper with a perilous edge, “Everyone says that, but nobody knows.”

“Knows what?” Jeonghan’s brows furrow together and he searches Seungcheol’s expression as if the secret can be deciphered from there. But he can’t figure it out from an expression alone.

“Dr. Yoon, I’ve never told anyone this but since it won’t matter anymore, I’ll just tell you. You’ve probably heard the theories before but that’s what science has kept them as. Just theories with no solid evidence.”

Seungcheol composes himself, hands folded together like Jeonghan. Then he begins.

“I was still conscious when I was infected. I mean, I was still me. It was just, the virus was a part of me. It just didn’t let me speak on my own accord or fight the insatiable need to eat human flesh. I ripped one arm off to limit the virus. Maybe that would slow the killing. But that wasn’t enough. So with my rotting body, I held onto a bar with my one arm so that it’d fall off. I wanted to be completely useless and I was for a while. Hadn’t eaten—killed—for days. Inside here, I found a few moments of peace but the virus was telling me to eat. Truth is, most of us have metal arms and legs because we self-mutilated ourselves during our infected state.” Seungcheol laughed. “Gam-shi twisted the truth to get people rallying for their efforts. Zombies self-mutilating themselves isn’t popular belief.”

Jeonghan tilts his head in confusion. “Is this really true?”

“Only if you believe it.” Seungcheol shrugs, nonchalantly, as if he doesn’t care. 

“I believe you,” Jeonghan says. He feels his nose stinging and suppresses the feeling.

“Anyway, what else am I supposed to do before drinking this?” Seungcheol asks, his hands wrapped around the cup.

Jeonghan almost feels like reaching out and taking the cup back. But he composes himself. “A message for loved ones. For the world.”

“The world?” Seungcheol asks, raising a brow. 

“We don’t broadcast it, of course. But…it eases people that they can say something to the world as a whole.”

“I don’t have anything to say…” 

“Friends? Family?”

Seungcheol’s voice is laced with ice. “I have no one.” He thinks about telling Jeonghan he ate everyone he loved when he was an infected zombie. But no. Jeonghan, although his doctor for the past 2 years, is still like everyone else. A stranger.

Jeonghan heaves a long, outstretched sigh. “Okay then, final requests?”

“Is it possible for you to delete my records?”

“We keep your records for legal purposes,” Jeonghan says. “I’m afraid we can’t.”

“It’s my final request,” Seungcheol says. “Even if it takes some time.”

“Well, we’re required to keep your records for 7 years. But after that, I can get rid of them if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, then.” Jeonghan nods.

“Can you keep that promise?”

“Of course. I’m a man of my word.”

Seungcheol holds up his mechanical arm, sticking out a silver pinky. “Pinky promise.”

Jeonghan laughs, appalled. “What?”

Seungcheol waits. “I won’t believe you.”

“We’re full-grown men—”

“I don’t want you to forget.”

“So pinky-promising a full-grown man with a mechanical arm is supposed to make me remember?” Jeonghan asks, still appalled. 

“Yes,” Seungcheol says, straight-faced, confident.

Jeonghan stares at the silver pinky. He feels the heat in his face rising. The heart in his chest beats harder against his chest the more he thinks about it. Why is he so nervous? He’s not scared, no. But he’s nervous of the man with the long, beautiful eyelashes. Then he composes himself, pushing up the sleeves of his white lab coat, clearing his throat. He hears a chuckle and looks at Choi Seungcheol. 

Is that a star? In his eyes? A smile in his eyes? 

Seungcheol straightens the curve on his lips. But Jeonghan can still see the smile. He reaches out with his pinky and it curls around Seungcheol’s. His silver pinky is cold but surreal. It clinks as it wraps around Jeonghan’s. It moves so humanly as if it’s made of flesh and bone. He is alive. _Alive._ Jeonghan has never felt it so actively before and feels the urge to let go. Only because he’ll want to hang on longer. Seungcheol’s grip tightens but only slightly and Jeonghan feels like his breath has been taken. There’s a small tug on Jeonghan’s little finger which is a big tug for the thing beating against his chest, and their thumbs touch briefly. _A kiss_ , Jeonghan thinks. He quickly brushes the thought away though. It’s simply the completion of a promise.

“Don’t forget,” Seungcheol says, letting go.

“I-I won’t,” Jeonghan replies. He feels the ghost of Seungcheol’s finger wrapped around his. He thinks about rubbing it away but he doesn’t want to forget. So he leaves it alone. Then Jeonghan wonders if Seungcheol can feel it too. His pinky of flesh and bone wrapped around Seungcheol’s pinky of wires and metal. Does a cyborg feel something that was there but isn’t anymore?

_It was always there. I just never told you._

There isn’t a star in the cyborg’s eye anymore. Just a curve of his lips. A smile that doesn’t reach those beautiful eyes.

“Thank you, Dr. Yoon.”

Then Choi Seungcheol takes the cup. He looks at it with what seems like hesitation but isn’t. Then up at the last man he will ever see. 

“Wait,” Jeonghan says.

It’s too late. The cup has touched his lips. The bitter liquid has entered his mouth and it travels in his throat. For a second, he’s curious what it is Dr. Yoon has to say to him. But he can’t push the thought any further. Imagination has left him. And the thought itself has too. Seungcheol is dying. 

Seungcheol is dead.

Yoon Jeonghan heaves a shaky sigh in front of a dead cyborg. He covers his mouth to stifle his cry, tears trickling. Quickly, with a shaking hand, he reaches up to stop the camera from recording. Bad timing, Yoon Jeonghan. You’re too late. Don’t ponder the what if’s. Don’t ponder the what if’s. 

He sits in his office, thinking about the cyborg with long eyelashes. Just briefly. Choi Seungcheol will be sleeping forever now and Jeonghan misses him.

-END-


End file.
